Time's Speed Limit
by Spellvira
Summary: A New York Executive takes a long trip into the surreal scapes of Silent Hill.
1. Chapter One: Time's Speed Limit

Disclaimer: Konami owns all Intellectual Property rights to Silent Hill the game and other wares. The story herein is a work of fiction based from the video game, but all works that follow are my own and for the sole purpose of entertainment at this time. This work is not intended to be sold, otherwise copied, or for purchase in any way. This story is inspired only by the video game, but all characters and alternative landscapes herein are my own invention, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Time's Speed Limit  
Chapter One                              

            Road trip.  I'd been on the road for a solid 72 hours—living on alternating sips of Mountain Dew, Red Bull, and coffee, sleeping only when necessary (oh, about every 14 hours or so).  Even with sleep, that long, buzzing tiredness started to set in, and I knew that, sooner or later, I'd have to find a rest stop again and actually rest—or I could nod off at the wheel like a total jackass—then I'd rest for good.  No point in wasting a perfectly good month-long vacation winding up in a crematorium.  2800 miles made for a long trip, and I was of the school that sleep was a necessity for sanity.

            Now that I look back on it, maybe I should have tried to stay awake.

            I should explain how I got here, even though I'm not entirely all that sure…

            I had (yes, had) a really high-pressure Wall Street job.  I was one of the most successful young women on Wall Street, and certainly the most successful woman at Wynston & Armley.  At the tender age of 27, I was promoted upon receiving my MBA, and made a great token woman on the board of eight directors (two other women had made it, but they were 25 years my senior and I was in charge of **them**).  I played the game, and I played it well.  I did anything I could to get that position—and yes, I think I fucked every chairman there to get that goddamn promotion, and would have fucked the chairwomen, too, if I'd had to (they sure looked like they needed a good lay).  Four years, and four men to a promotion as Chairwoman Queen Bitch from Hell, otherwise known as Delia Wallace.  But I could've gotten that promotion without screwing anybody (in a manner of speaking)—in just four short years, I made millions for the company, been published and printed and profiled in countless Finance Magazines, and was known around the Board at the "Miracle Million Maker."  Hey, these Wall Street types aren't clever, but they can buy and sell clever if they…if we…want to.

            But by the ripe old age of 28, I was burned out.  Being the Chairwoman on a board of Chairpeople isn't easy for a seasoned pro, let alone a kid like me who's never really seen the world outside of the great big money filter known as New York City.  But hell, some kids have all the luck.  I was good at buying the right bonds, skirting the law (in other words, doing the job my way and then turning around and making it all look legal), back-stabbing, getting meddlers and other peons fired, but most of all, I've always seemed to have this weird ability to push others into getting what I want.

            I wanted to be rich by my own hand, retire at 30, invest, and spend the rest of my life being and independently wealthy bitch, whoring all over the globe.

            And I did it.  Sure, I had more than my share of luck to begin with—rich family, only child, good schools—but a lot of the strings after that, well, I pulled those on my own.

            But I was tired of it.  Done playing, ready to go home to my dead parents, move back into our large but humble family estate, and be done with it.  Better than suicide—now _there's a way to retire (yeah, right)._

            It seemed no one wanted to let me go for a while, and I didn't think I'd be able to leave just like that.  But I did.  I left for a month's vacation, and I didn't intend to go back.

            The next thing they'd see was my letter of resignation.

            Yep.  28-year-old poor little rich girl with something to prove to her dead mummy and daddy—finally gave up, took her ball, and went home.

            I should've just remained part of the idle rich.  But I had to prove I was good enough to earn our family money and name.  I had to, and there was no other choice for me.  Stupid me.  Oh well, at least I learned before it was too late.

            At the office party to celebrate my first vacation with the company (these alcoholics will party for any reason whatsoever), I made a big joke over leaving.  "Where shall I go, and whatever shall I do?"

            That's when Howard Croft, Executive VP of Finance, answering only to the god known as our President and CEO (and I answered only to both of them), and the sloppiest, kinkiest lay I've ever had (trapeze and rubber pants, need I say more?), handed me a map, and a dart.

            "What's this?"  I said, automatically taking the items from him.

            "Well, why don't you do that precious little kitsch thing, roving across the country and 'see America first'?"  He took the map back from me and placed it on the wall with a few pieces of tape.  "Shoot your dart, and where it lands, you'll go.  And, of course," he slipped into a very bad imitation of John Wayne (which was his best impression, the poor sap); "Y'all have to do it the real 'Pioneer' way…y'all got to get in yer car and drive there.  No flyin', see, that's cheatin', pard."

            The group uttered hollow laughter—when Howard Croft made a joke, rare as the occasion was—no one dared not to laugh, no matter how asinine.

            He smiled a little at me, an odd smile I'd never seen on him before, making him look vaguely like a crazed murderer with a teenager to torture freshly trapped in his basement.  I returned his smile with a polite but cautious one of my own.

            "Okay, Howard, you win.  I'll do it.  Stand back."

            I fired the dart.

            Howard got to the map first (of course).

            "You're going to have to pack for quite a trip, Delia."

            I sighed inwardly.  "Why?  Where am I going?"  I started to lean toward the map.  Howard's hand was in the way and I couldn't see where the dart…where I had chosen for my little getaway.

            He smiled that same odd smile again, and for no apparent reason, my heart suddenly dropped into my stomach.  I didn't like that smile.

            "Oh, it's a quaint little resort on Toluca Lake.  In Silent Hill."


	2. Chapter Two: Breakthrough

                        **Time's Speed Limit**

                            **Chapter Two**

            My travel agent called me at home (a beautiful Manhattan Penthouse, thank you very much) to tell me there were no direct flights to Silent Hill.  In fact, the closest International Airport was about 250 miles away.

            How…quaint.

            Toluca Lake might literally be in the middle of nowhere.  Isn't that…sweet.  I was about to give up on the idea of even going, but even I won't cross Howard Croft.  He was a man who liked getting his way, in business, sex, and ideas.  It was his idea for me to get away, and people who displeased him had a funny way of hitting rock bottom fast.  

            I dismissed my personal assistant who had packed my necessities, and decided to add a few of my own.  I might be fairly young, but I'm not naïve, and I know how to fire  a gun.  I was not going to go travelling about the country by car without my cell phone and my .22 semi-automatic.  I'd never actually had to use it, but there's no way this City Girl would ever let anyone violate me…without a response that went BANG, at least.

            My take on guns and self-defense went like this:  if some overly violent and small-penised man wants to try and rape me and kill me, and doesn't care, then why should I think twice about splattering his loins all over the street?

            So I finished packing, ate dinner, and went to bed.

            And had a very interesting dream…Howard had me on the trapeze again, upside down, touching me, and the blood rushing to my head was quite pleasant.

            A mirror.  I was looking into a mirror.  I looked really hot upside down—long black hair hanging, almost touching the floor with my back fully arched.  But Howard, he was odd, more odd than usual.  His very slight body was covered in what appeared to be a butcher's apron, and the cat o'nine tails in his right hand was covered in blood.  He was beating me with it, the ends turning into sharp teeth which bit me, making me writhe and thrust against it, as if I was trying to take all of it inside of me.

            And then I began to bleed.  No, not bleed, exactly…more like my entire body was being covered by a black oil, but spongier, more pliable.  It moved about my body in thick tendrils, covering my skin, my hair, and my face.

            'Howard, stop.  Something's happening.'  I tried to say, but no sound came from my mouth.  'How….'

            Then, I couldn't breathe.  The room began to fade to black.  The last thing I could hear was Croft murmuring something, almost inaudible…a phrase of some sort.  "Come forth, come back, Ain Soph!  Ain Soph!"

            I woke suddenly, gasping for air.

            What the hell was that?

            I suddenly felt the need to leave for Silent Hill in the morning, and leave this mad city behind.  Maybe I would never come back.  If I liked Toluca Lake, I figured, I could just move the Estate there or build a new place.  I fell asleep again, tentatively, then relaxed after a while, and forgot about the dream until much later.  

            I woke up the next morning at nine, feeling sluggish, as if I'd been doing a lot of drinking the night before.  My head was throbbing.  I reached over to the endtable to grab my aspirin.  Instead my hand touched a slip of paper.  I picked it up, squinting to examine it through my bleary eyes.

            The note read:

            D-

            Have a great time at Toluca Lake.  I simply had to write you to tell you that I, in fact, went there myself once, about three years ago, shortly after my son died.  It was a truly blessed experience that I'll never forget.

            If I had the time, I would go with you.  Call me if you need anything.

            Fondly,

            H. C.

            Howard?  Howard Croft?  What in the hell?  I crumpled the note and forgot all about the aspirin, and through my thudding skull, I grabbed the phone.

            "Hello."

            "Howard, it's Delia."

            "Well, hello Delia, what do you need?"

            "Cut the bullshi…"  I trailed off…what the hell was I going to say to Croft about this?  "Howard, please, I'm sorry.  I just have a bad headache.  How did you get in my house?"

            He laughed pleasantly.  "I still have your key from last summer, remember, D?"

            My face got hot.  "Oh.  Yeah.  Anyway, Howard, thanks for the offer.  I might just take you up on it."  I started to feel a little more in control of myself (though not much).

            "Perhaps you will.  I'll be around, D."  Good.  He wasn't pissed off by me this time…he was still calling me D.

            "It's really odd that you've been to Silent Hill, and I just happened to hit right on it with that magic little dart, Howard.  Did you set this up, baby?"  I tried to make my voice coy.  He breathed slight laughter.

            "No, no.  I might be powerful, my Delia, but I doubt I'm _that_ powerful."

            Something in his voice again…sounded like he was smiling that weird smile.  I reached over, grabbed the aspirin, and dry-swallowed four of them.

            "Well, thanks, Howard.  I guess I'll talk to you later."

            "Enjoy, D.  I'll think of you often."  Click.

            I got up, went to the bathroom and got into my shower.  I let the jets spray down on me, and turned up the heat.  I felt the need to be sterilized for no apparent reason.


	3. Chapter Three: On The Road

                        **Time's Speed Limit**

_                             On the Road_

            I slipped into my Audi A8 (black, of course, and nothing but the best) and hit the road that morning, still a little disturbed by Howard's note being there.  But that was Howard…he was always full of surprises.  Ah, Howard…I wouldn't call him a confidant, mentor, or any such title, but the man could fuck and he always seemed to like me.  Oh, who am I kidding?  I liked Howard, a lot, even though sometimes I thought he was a bit of a sap.  He was mysterious and downright disturbing, and that made him fun for me.  A mystery…a challenge.  The things that I really liked in a person.  He made me, I owed him, and I knew it.  So I did what he wanted, or what I thought he wanted.  Sometimes, I thought it might even be a little bit of love…no…not really love…but something.

            It's never been my style to show any depth, but, fuck, I'm a human being and something's gotta give every once in a while.  I knew I probably wasn't anything but a pet of some sort to Howard, but it was attention, and for the most part, it was fun.

            (Ia, ia, Cthulhu Fthagan.)

            Huh?  I snapped out of my Howard revelry to look at my radio.

            "Buy-a, buy-a, new low prices again!"  Said the announcer.

            That's not what I heard.  What the hell was that?  Who threw Lou's fag-on?  I must have been hearing things.

            Static started building up through the speakers.  Static?  On a satellite channel?  I sighed, put in a CD, and passed a highway sign:  

                                              SILENT HILL   &

                                              TOLUCA LAKE           2713

            So, only 2713 more miles and I'd be truly on vacation.  Whee.

            Wait a minute…why in the world would there be a sign advertising a piece of shit little Podunk town over two thousand miles away?  I backed the car up…this was too good.  I had to get a picture of this shit.

            Aiming the camera at the sign, the viewfinder happily pointed to the white on green letters:

                                                SPRINGDALE

                                                TESTING FACILITY              13

            Huh?

            I dropped the camera (like I give a shit, I'll just buy a new one, right?) and actually rubbed my eyes.  I felt as if I were being watched by a small audience in a low-budget horror film.  Maybe I just needed a mid-day nap and some lunch.

            Picking up the camera and getting back in my car, I checked the odometer.  Christ.  I'd only gone 87 miles, and already I was suffering from highway hypnosis?  Screw that.  I stopped at a Java To Go place and got a heavy dose of caffeine.  I planned on being on the road no longer than four days.  Then, sweet bliss as I put my feet up at the…the…what the hell was the name of that resort?  Lakeview.  The Lakeview Hotel.

            That was an easy enough name, so why couldn't I remember it?  It's not as if it were a traumatic event to be blocked out of my memories (as if I believed in that psychological garbage).

            I sped off, determined to go at least 700 miles a day.  My personal assistant had arranged hotel accommodations for me at each interval.  I wasn't about to lose my ambition this early in the game.

            I'd gone nearly 60 miles on Highway 80…and I was starting to feel hungry.  I stopped and checked my OnStar.  There had to be a restaurant.  Hell, I wasn't even out of New Jersey yet, barely made it to Pennsylvania.  If I were going to freak out over nothing in the middle of civilization, I'd be screwed if I actually made it to the middle of nowhere and something else happened.  So, as Howard would have instructed me to do, I sucked it up, shut-up, and put up my stuff. 

            OnStar responded immediately with directions and a rating on the nearest dive.  Ha.  Two stars.  This was going to be really cute.  I went, "dined" and left, taking a sufficient amount of antacid with me.  This little pioneer trip was not going to be so bad, though, after all, I was getting a glimpse at what the average person lives with on a daily basis.  That, at least, was fascinating, and, actually, kind of fun.

            I made up my mind that fried chicken had to be the best food ever created.  At least that was new.  No more ennui for Delia Wallace, not when there's fried chicken around.

Day Two

            Welcome to Prairie Corners.  What kind of an asshole name is Prairie Corners, anyway?  Ah, what a lovely little place in … oh, as if I can actually remember what state I'm in (aside from hypnotic) … I'm fairly sure that I was in Iowa at the time.

            I pulled over to the side of the road, rolled down my windows, opened my sunroof, shut off the motor (with a full tank of gas—I'm not that stupid), and relaxed back in my bucket seat.  Time enough for a little catnap; even as tense as I was, I was still pretty damn tired from traveling this way.

            The road ahead was very straight, and very wide open, with nothing on either side but what appeared to be wheat (or maybe oats, I haven't a damn clue).  No people anywhere.  A lonely stretch of road (even though people insisted to me that 80 was very well traveled—that day, I hadn't seen a person or car for hours).  While I was driving, I felt a lot like a moving target.  The space—there was so much space, and I couldn't help but feel very tense.  I'd never lived anywhere quite like this.  Sure, the Estate was on a very large piece of land, but it certainly was within throwing distance of New York City.  The majority of my life seemed to have been spent in Manhattan.

            At the same time, I felt a sense of liberation.  There were no meetings out here, no deadlines, no bear market, no bull market, and at least for me, no worries.  I drifted into a light doze.  So quiet, the only sounds

            All of a sudden, I was thinking of Howard again.  What was he doing, aside from working?  Why in the hell was I obsessing over Howard?  Howard, and his slim, tight body, his light brown hair, his wire-rimmed spectacles, his soft, thin lips that pooched out in a pout when he kissed, his teeth, small and white and sharp…

            (Ia, ia, Cthulhu Fthagan, Dagon Drak.)  

            What?

            I snapped awake.  It sounded like my radio was on, even though I'd shut the car off before my little nap.

            It wasn't on, though, just the little red flash to signal the auto anti-theft device.  I was just having a drowsy dream.  I closed my eyes and settled back.  I didn't know who Dagon Drak was, but I was just a bit too tired to care what Uncle Lou Fagan wanted to do with him.  Near as I could tell, that was what I'd heard.

            I dreamt of Howard.

            We were in a rowboat on still water, a thick fog surrounding us.  I found it rather difficult to breathe.      

            "Whatever you do, D, don't put your hands in the water."  He was rowing feverishly, aroused.  I was nude.

            "Where are we, Howard?"

            "Toluca Lake.  My son, he's here.  You have to help me find my son."

            I looked around—feverish, naked, bewildered.  "What are you talking about?"  I tried to scan the landscape, but the fog was too thick.  I looked at Howard again.  "What's going on?"

            "Delia, kiss me."  He had thrown the oars into the water and was reaching for me.  He was covered in black slime and there were strange little suction cups on his hands.

            "What's happening?"  I kicked and tried to get away, and landed in the water.  It was boiling hot.  I knew for sure I was going to drown.

            "Do you need assistance, Miss Wallace?"  Howard was saying in a polite voice.  "Miss Wallace, shall I call for an ambulance?"

            I awoke with a start.  The voice asking me those questions was certainly not Howard's voice, but my OnStar satellite operator.

            "No!  No thank you.  I just pulled over, uh, for a little nap."  I said into the speakerphone.  

            "Oh, well, that's good, Miss Wallace.  Your hand hit the call button while you were sleeping."

            "Oh."

            "He told you not to put it in the water."

            "Excuse me, Operator?"

            "I said, 'please be sure to call us if you require assistance with any matter.'"

            I shook my head.  "I will.  Thank you."  I ended the call before she could reply, and sighed, trying to shake the fog of that dream, and suddenly recalling the dream about the trapeze, and the black slime.

            I hated the X-Files; the one time I saw it, damn it.  Why was I dreaming about this stupid shit in conjunction with Howard?  And why was I obsessing over Howard Croft all of a sudden?

            I closed up the car, flipped on the CD player, and got back on the road.  I decided I was only going to stop when I got desperate to sleep.  I wanted to get to Silent Hill.  The answers were there.  I wanted peace.  I hoped it would be there, waiting for me.

            I also wished Howard were with me, nightmares and all.  My stomach flipped with that thought.  I'm no sentimental fool, I didn't love Howard and I knew for sure he didn't love me, but there was the ache for him, just the same.

            Fuck.


	4. Chapter Four: Dark Arrival

**Time's Speed Limit**

**Chapter 4**

Day Three

            I was so eager to get my last 600 or so miles over with that I decided I would drive without stopping.  My final destination would be Toluca Lake, and I would finally rest there.  I also decided I would call Howard and invite him over.  I would figure out how I really felt about him…this weird mixed feelings bullshit was starting to get on my nerves.  I didn't trust him, I thought of him constantly, and I lusted after him like a bitch in heat.

            I drove through the entire day and into the night quite uneventfully…traveling is a weird experience…and traveling alone can make for some very strange happenstance.  I'd suffered just a little too much highway ghost stories for one trip, and I was beginning to doubt my sanity, actually.  Maybe I really was burned out from a life of too much stress.  Could someone really go insane like this?  I dismissed the idea.  I just needed to rest.  The dreams, hearing and seeing things, all were probably just fatigue.  I waited for dawn to return.  I was glad for the pink, red, and purple sunrise when it finally showed itself.

            After a few miles (30, maybe 40) of more straight-ahead driving, I saw a sign on the highway indicating another little greasy spoon.  This one was oh-so cleverly named, "Fuel-N-Food."  My stomach piped up angrily at me, demanding nourishment.  I followed the signs and knew I was there when I saw two 18-wheelers and several pick-up trucks.  Ah, the sublime culture of the redneck.  Well, at least it provides entertainment.  Besides, I wasn't afraid of these people.  Sure, pulling up in such an expensive car, and me, as good-looking and well built as I was (am), was surely "asking for trouble."  But I didn't believe in that crap.  I had money to spend, a hunger to quell, and besides, I was armed.

            So I entered the diner, ignored the heads turning toward me, helped myself to a local newspaper and sat down at a booth.  I looked over at the bar to my right.  There was an older-looking waitress, and a younger one pouring coffee.  The old bag came over to my table.  "You want coffee?"

            I looked directly at her.  Her gaze was empty.  "Yes."

            She poured it silently.  I noticed the room was quiet.  Why weren't these assholes going back to their meals?  The waitress in the pink smock with the nametag "Bettie" stood there for a moment.  She pulled a menu out of the front pocket and slapped it down on the table.

            I put a hundred dollar bill on the table.  "Bettie, that whole thing is yours if you bring me bacon, eggs, and toast and leave me alone."

            "Uh…oh…okay, ma'am.  How do you want your eggs?"

            "Over hard, and white toast."

            I ate my meal and finished reading the saddest little paper I'd ever seen.  The entire thing was all about local farm news, crops dying, and how the high school team was going to be a big loser three years in a row.

            "You're the monster," said a voice.  I looked up sharply to meet the eyes of a clearly retarded man.  The eyes were gray, filmy, and rather blank, like  a mud puddle.

            "Gee, thanks," I replied.  I put my hand on the butt of my gun, "now get out of my way so I can leave."

            "Monster!"  He shouted.  I had started to get up, but sat back down and looked around the room.  Everyone was looking in our direction.

            "Look, buddy, I'm no monster.  I'm just here on vacation.  Passing through.  Now please get out of my way."

            Bettie came over quickly, apparently jump-starting from behind the bar.  "C'mon, Dale," she began, "leave the nice lady alone."

            Ha. 'Nice lady.'  Wonder what she would have called me for another hundred.

            Dale moved.  I got up and headed out, suddenly feeling my food trying to come back out through the point of entry.  I held it down and swallowed.

            Was it my imagination, or did everyone in the room seem to have that mud-puddle stare about them?

            "Get out of here, Missy.  You're in trouble.  We don't want no trouble."

            I got in my car and sped off, checking to make sure none of those fuck-ups were tailing me.  They weren't.  I was glad to be out of there, not because I was frightened, but because I was pissed, and I knew if I had stayed there, there would have been trouble.

            I would have killed someone.

            I don't know who, how, or why, I just knew it.  I would have done it, likely to protect myself from those inbred cousin-fuckers.

            I had to get to Silent Hill.

            I finally managed to settle down, and, after about an hour, I was back on the highway hypnosis trip.  I was really close, and thought I could almost smell the water of Toluca lake.  I pulled over and consulted my map of the town itself.  It looked like County Route 73 turned into Nathan Avenue, but I wanted to be absolutely sure.  So I consulted my OnStar directions to get me to the hotel.  The computer, in her remote but pleasant voice, said, "Follow County Route 73 for the next 70 miles.  County Route 73 becomes Nathan Avenue.  Follow Nathan Avenue toward the dead children.  The Hotel is located on the left."

            No.  That couldn't have been what she just said.  I knew at that moment, I might truly be insane.  "Repeat directions," I commanded.

            "You heard me, Miss Wallace.  You will dismember the children of Nathan Avenue.  You will eat their organs.  You will gnaw on their bones.  You will wear their skins in the name of Cthulhu.  You will be His mate, eternal, in the name of the Elders."

            I felt a wave of nausea rush over me, the breakfast deciding it wanted to take the projectile exit.  "What?  What is this, some kind of fucking joke?"

            "You are Li-li-tu…"

            "OnStar technical support, dial now."

            "You know who you are, and you know what to do."

            I screamed in frustration and perhaps a bit of fear.  "What in the fuck is going on here?!"

            I heard chanting all around me, words or sounds that I didn't quite understand, but could almost make out as it swelled in my ears.  I became dizzy and wanted to puke again.  "Ia, Ia, Cthulhu Fthagan, Dagon Drak!"

            A slick, black oil hit my windshield.  I screamed again and grabbed my gun.  But what would I shoot?

            I awoke with a start.  I had fallen asleep on the side of the road.  I looked around, disoriented.

            I was at the Welcome Station in Silent Hill.


	5. Chapter Five: The Road To Nowhere

**Time's Speed Limit, Chapter Five**

(The Road to Nowhere)

            I had to rub my eyes, literally.  I didn't remember actually arriving at Silent Hill.  Yet here I was, out of my car, approaching the station.

            There were no other cars, and it was completely quiet.  "Silent Hill, it is."  I said aloud, and scared myself.  I thought I was going to faint.  I bent over, took a deep breath, and told myself to hold on…and eventually, the wash of nausea and grayness surrounding my field of vision passed.  I stood tentatively on what felt like very loose ground, and approached the Welcome Station.  Maybe they'd have a little something for their guests; something nice for their guests, I amended mentally.  This vacation wasn't turning out very well.

            I entered the lobby area and was greeted by a simple, friendly face of a little old man behind a tall counter.  He looked like the type who probably forgot to put his pants on this morning.

            "Welcome to Silent Hill, Miss.  Would you care for a complimentary glass of juice?"

            I laughed.  A sense of unreality washed over me.  I thought I might be going insane for real this time.  Then I decided I didn't care.

            "Miss?"  His face showed concern.  I sobered up a little.

            "I apologize, sir.  I will pass on your offer for some juice.  How about a bullet?"  I started laughing again, and I reached for my gun.

            "Excuse me, Miss?"  His sweet, tired face looked concerned.  I pulled out my trusty steel and aimed at his head.  I fired once.  Twice.

            I awoke with a start in my hotel room, now completely disoriented and feeling one of the worst hangovers I've ever had.  I reached for my cigarettes on the end table and realized I'd given up smoking 4 years ago.

            Just what was happening to me?  Was I really losing my mind?  I looked around for a minute, trying to get a hold on reality and the waking world.  I recognized this hotel room as the sub-standard place that AAA rated four stars, but considering I was accustomed to The Carlisle for $25,000 for a three-night stay, I guess it could have been worse.

            I was actually only about 100 miles away from Toluca Lake, and judging by the speed at which I drove, I would wind up there in about an hour.

            I turned toward the nearby chair just to my right, and felt as though my skull might crack in half.  I promptly vomited, most of it landing on the floor, some on me, and some splashing onto the end table.  It was black and slippery, and tasted like rotten meat.  I looked again, and though there was probably some blood it, it was mostly pink and looked like chunks of ham.

            I wiped myself off and hopped in the shower.  That was a bad hangover…even though I didn't remember drinking the night before.  Now that wasn't too unusual lately.  I'd become quite the alcoholic.  Yet another reason for this permanent vacation—I needed to dry out and I knew it.

            I started to feel better and forgot about my dreams.  I checked out leaving that lovely mess and a hundred dollar tip to cover the clean up (and maybe even make it up to the maid), and rolled out for Toluca Lake.

            I arrived.  The Welcome Station was closed.  I suddenly recalled both of my dreams, and sighed.  Fuck precognition, I sure as hell didn't seem to have it.

            I passed it and headed on Nathan Avenue to Toluca Lake.  I looked around.  No dead children, no other cars, nothing.  I was completely alone.

            I consulted the clock on my dashboard.  It was blinking.

            BLINKING.

            I pulled over and consulted my watch.  My watch had stopped.  Suddenly, my car died.  My car, which cost as much as my penthouse…DIED.

            I got out of the car and looked toward the lake…a dense fog was rolling in quickly.  I got back in the car and tried to start it.  Nothing, no electric sound, no turnover whatsoever.  I tried to access OnStar.  Nothing.

            I realized I wasn't dreaming.  I wasn't going to wake up this time.

            I got out of the car and started to run down Nathan Avenue…I was very athletic, I had my gun, and the hotel wasn't that far away (3 miles according to my final consultation on my map).  I would hurry there, check in, and get my car towed.

            A thought sprang up, like a little cheerleader who wasn't getting her way, "Delia…have you seen ANYONE yet?"

            I stopped in my tracks, but refused to turn.  The fog was suddenly all around me and I could barely see three feet in front of myself.  If I turned, I'd undoubtedly get lost.  Fogs don't just roll in like this in NYC.

            Well, hell…now what was I going to do?  I wouldn't be able to see my car, and I didn't have a flashlight on me, I left my map behind.  It was just me and my weapon…as if there were anyone around to pose a threat.

            Not yet, right?

            Now I really scared myself.  I decided just to keep going down Nathan Avenue.  I'd come to the Ferry/Boat launch soon enough.  There would be somebody there to take me to the Lakeview Hotel.  I remembered from studying the map that it was just before the Silent Hill Historical Society.  The fog was thick, but it wasn't so thick that I couldn't see the buildings.

            I ran by a sign reading, "Rosewater Park," and knew I was headed in the right direction per my map.

            I slowed to a fast walk.  It wasn't as if anything was chasing me.  I told myself to grow up and get moving.


	6. Chapter Six: Grow Up and Get Moving

Chapter Six: Grow Up and Get Moving.

I started to walk. At this point, there was something weird happening to me...to my mind, and it had something to do with Howard and this be-damned Silent Hill.

I checked my gun to see how many rounds it had in it. To my surprise (though I'm not sure why I was surprised), it still had 10 rounds in it.

'Am I a complete idiot?' I thought, 'I'm going to need supplies!'

I headed back for the car. I'd at least get my valise and get a couple of clips and my water. What in the hell was I thinking to try and get where I was going without my map and maybe even a duffel bag? Had I completely lost it?

_You are the mother of my child, D. The Eater of Stars._

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I yelled, putting my hands over my ears and shrinking away as if I could escape the voice in my head. I caught myself, and laughed.

Welcome to Shit-house-rat-insanity-ville, population one.

I heard a noise in my ear, like a grunt (not in my head that time, I was almost sure). In the fog, though, I couldn't see anything to my right or left. Of course, had it been as close as I'd heard it, I should have been able to see it.

Right?

I felt sweaty (maybe it was film from the fog), my clothes were clinging to me as if they were afraid, but I tried desperately to orient myself and get back to the car. By some miraculous force, I saw its shape and went running for it. I got my supplies and headed on my way.

I heard the grunt again.

I sighed and consulted my map---feeling like an old bat for having to bring it so damn close to my face because of the spider-web fog.

I knew I was on Nathan Avenue. I knew I should go to the Hotel as quickly as possible. I had no clue why I knew I should go to the Hotel so desperately, but some things are like that---one thing I learned in my business was to trust my instincts---those instincts got me through two recessions and a couple of absolutely retarded presidents...so there was no way I was going to turn away from them now.

Heading down Nathan, I discovered what was making the grunting noise.

A large, furry, and slimy gorilla-dog-pig-type thing was ambling toward me like a bad horror movie. Under normal circumstances, I would have thought it was a practical joke. However, the rancid smell of old meat emanating from it not only rolled my stomach, but reinforced that this was real. Shaking, I took a deep breath, and steadied my hand. One shot took its nose (Nose? Snout?) off, and the next shot to the head dropped it. Survival instincts overcoming curiosity, I decided to steer clear of the animal (monster, whatever) entirely.

What the fuck was that?

The next one I saw did manage to cut my stomach with its claws a little bit...damn thing snuck up on me (which I swear is possible in this frigging fog)...but I managed to kill it. This time, I decided to get a better look.

The animal/whatever, not only rancid-smelling and furry with traces of slime across its being, had red eyes which had no discernable iris or pupil from its sclera. Just red all the way across the entire eye, and jelly like, as if the eyes were set in red gelatin. I pushed open its snout/mouth area with the barrel of my gun, and noted the incisors. They were long. Its teeth were completely jagged—no—serrated, like saws. I shivered. That would hurt more than a simple swipe from its lazy claws.

I settled uneasily into the fact that I would see more of them on this journey. Time to move on...

The creatures ceased to bother me after the fourth encounter, until I realized one of them was wearing a shirt. A torn, white shirt (well, it had once been white—more of a grayish yellow).

(Had it been human? What happened to this town?)

I pushed the thoughts away. Thoughts like that are not conducive to survival...and that's what Delia Wallace does...she survives. It was useless to dwell on that, even though my sanity was pretty much worthless at that point. There were apparently no humans left in this place...only monstrous creatures and a thick fog were left behind.

I knew inside, I'd figure out why if I could just get to the stupid hotel.

If only I hadn't let Howard talk me into this...Howard. Why did I keep thinking he was here? I kept dreaming about him. I felt like a teenager in a horror movie: "Oh Mr. Scary Croft, please don't kill me, I have so much to do before Prom."

I finally ambled to the Boat Launch and began my search for a boat to take to get across to the Lakeview Hotel...taking Nathan Avenue would have been the long way, and I was ready to finish this bullshit as quickly as possible...no matter what happened.

Along the shore was a little row boat, which thankfully still had its oars. Of course, no one was around to row the damn thing across the lake for me, so I was left to my own devices. I checked the ratty old thing for leaks (leave it to a city girl to row out to the middle and drown before solving her mystery), but found none. Grateful for the time spent on my rowing machine, I set off for the hotel.

The lake, was perfectly still with the exception of my rowing. The rowing itself was like salt in my stomach, what with the fresh cut right above my navel, (fucking pig-dog-gorilla thing) reminding me I'd need to take care of that as soon as possible. I headed toward the light (the lighthouse was lit, didn't that mean someone was there?) of the hotel and hoped I'd find some answers.

I docked on a mildew-ridden, smelly, half-eaten shambles of wooden board and carefully stepped up the stairs to the building.


	7. Chapter Seven: The Road Beyond

Chapter Seven: The Road Beyond

To say that the hotel was creepy would have been redundant. But it was creepy; the whole place made my stomach drop. It seemed too familiar. As I climbed the stone stairs toward the grand double doors (which were no longer grand and covered with what smelled like mildew and felt like slime), I was _certain_ I'd been here before.

(But how was that even possible, D? Have you lost your mind?)

I started to laugh, with no idea why. I was sick to my stomach. I looked down at my hands, and saw my shiny gun.

I entered the slime-covered hotel. Something was happening inside of me, and I felt powerless to stop it, and hated myself for it. I'd never felt powerless...ever. I looked around the lobby. Quiet, dark, with a thick scent of ozone. Now what?

Just to my left was a map of the hotel. I took it down, ripping it off the walls (which were wet, disgustingly enough) with a slick ease. I headed for the front desk. It just seemed like the right thing to do...not that I expected anyone to be there, but more likely because that's the first thing I always did when I went to a hotel. Creature of habit—maybe it would pay off and there would be some paperwork or something to help me get out of this mess.

I walked over to the counter and looked around. The front of the desk was messy with paperwork but not where I could reach it. I tried the door to get to the other side. Locked.

Fuck it. I kicked it in. Well, I _tried_ to kick it in—I'd never kicked in a door in my life and had no clue how one actually did that. My foot slipped and I fell on my ass. My hands didn't catch me, and I was still holding the gun, which happily shot off at the door, hitting just to the side of the knob. The door popped open.

I put the safety back on the gun, got up, dusted off my butt, and entered the office area.

Much of the paperwork was wet, and covered with a dark red ink, and I couldn't read much of it. Useless. I turned around to look at the room cubbies. Funny. No keys. Except one.

Room 213.

I stared at the key for a long time. I'm not sure how long I stared at it. This couldn't be good.

My hands began shaking, and I felt waves of dizziness come over me. I shuddered, stomach dropping. I was going to vomit. I swallowed it down, and forced my hands to steady. I breathed. Again. And once more. 'Slow down, D,' I thought, 'just slow the hell down.' Was I really going to have to go to this room?

I looked through the front desk office drawers. I found a flashtlight, some batteries that tested okay (love that little strip on the side), and a letter.

The letter was addressed to...ME. I opened it.

_D,_

_I'm here, and I have a surprise for you. Come to room 213, love, and all your questions will be answered._

_Try not to fret, D. All of the answers that don't lie with me lie within. I know all this is scary and rather off-putting, to be certain, but you have nothing to fear._

_Love,_

_H._

I sighed. This should have been expected somehow, I thought. I closed my eyes for a moment. Opening them, I looked down and saw that the words were still there, still written in Howard Croft's exacting hand. I put the letter down on the table. With a much steadier hand, I took the key and headed to 213. This was not going to be easy. The staircase from the lobby had been destroyed (it looked like something had chewed it up until it collapsed). I was going to have to take the service stairs..._if those were even in order_...

I went out the back door from the office and turned on the flashtlight in the enveloping darkness. The arc of light gave me a disappointing foot or so visibility. Even the darkness here seemed alive, and eating everything in sight.

Fortunately the stairs weren't too far away, and even more fortunately still I had stumbled my way in the right direction. I placed one foot on the stairs when I heard it, and I stopped still.

It was a screech. I little screech of a tortured baby animal...or human. Whatever the hell it was, I had no intention of meeting it here, nor its mother. I ran up the stairs as fast as my legs would carry me. My legs carried me right into it.

The little noise maker, my flashtlight revealed, was actually about six-feet tall. It was unsurprisingly shiny with wetness on its silvery skin, and covered sporadically with a slick black liquid, and where there was no silver skin or black liquid, there was a rotten-smelling, red, sticky-looking substance, which, presumably, was blood. I would have vomited, normally, but it was heading toward me. It had no eyes, no mouth, nose, or ears. Just skin stretched over a head. It had arms, though, and it was reaching for me. I had no intention of finding out if it had a mouth—I just aimed my gun and started firing. It took four shots to take it down, and then, I had to kick its head area. Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick. A sickening splat and what was left of its 'head' shattered under my foot. Great, now my foot was stuck in rotting goo. _That_ was the moment I puked.

I shook off my foot, covered in goo and my own stomach bile, and headed up the rest of the stairs. It was quiet.

I found room 213. I put the key in the lock and turned it. Opening it slowly, I stepped inside.

Shutting the door behind me, I stared at a clean room, with the bed freshly made. There was nothing sinister about this room. No smell of ozone, no fog...everything about it was clear. Howard stood, his head bent, facing away from me, his slim frame smaller, somehow defeated. He was wearing a brown sweater vest over a white shirt, and light brown pants. His feet were bare. He looked clean and out of place. The whole room looked out of place. He was looking at a body on the floor.

I crossed the room to face him, and the body. There, sprawled out on the floor, was his son. I recognized the square-jawed good looks of his only child, lying cold on the navy blue carpet with the gold coin design. His black hair was slick, he was naked and wet. He looked like he'd been pulled out of the water.

Howard was quiet, tears streaming down his face. "My son died in search of the truth about his mother, you know."

"Howard, please, you need to let go of this," I started, taking a step forward, reaching out to him. "You've suffered enough."

I started to take his hand, then retracted it. He looked up at me, still crying.

"I can't, D. I can never let go. I know the truth now. You killed him."

I tried to smile, but more of a sneer crossed my face. "What nonsense is this, H?" I started to feel jumpy. I had to leave. This didn't make any sense. "Why would you say something like that?" I felt something inside of me break...a little 'tick' sound in the back of my head, then, a feeling of strange euphoric relief filling my body. I giggled a little. Howard, face twisted with rage, stepped over his son's body (perfectly still in that strange, supine position, I half expected it to move, but it didn't), and came toward me, hands outstretched. I'd never seen him so ugly, so twisted, his eyes bloodshot with tears, glasses off, bored into me. I felt heavy and stupid under their scrutiny.

"You killed my son!" Howard exclaimed. I raised the gun. I pointed it at him, but I didn't fire. I didn't want to do it.

"I didn't. I killed the monsters!" Howard came toward me, his arms not arms, but tendrils as those of a squid. He grabbed me, and I tried to struggle against him, but he held me strong. I dropped the gun, and the Howard-monster dropped me. I ran from him, picked up my gun, and tried to get away. He returned to normal, standing over his dead son-monster (whatever the hell it was—it looked like his son, sure, but to me, it was just another monster), and looked at me. Tears streamed down his face.

"You knew he was going to take over and get rid of you. You _knew_, and you couldn't bear it."

What the hell was he talking about? "Yes, Howard, I knew, but that's not why I shot him...I...he...we..." I stopped. "H, I killed him because I didn't want him to come between us, and that's what he did. He tried to _rape_ me at that party, and when I wouldn't cave, he threatened to take me down. I didn't want to lose _everything _I'd ever earned over a dick! A _dick_, Howard, your son was a psychotic asshole who would have made us lose everything!" I was babbling and screaming at the top of my lungs. All H would do was just stare in return. A stupid stare. Finally, he spoke.

"I knew all the things you had done, D. I knew, and I loved you anyway. But then you TOOK MY SON AWAY! I knew you had to pay, Delia. So here you are. Here is where you will PAY." His tendrils came back, and he flicked one like a magician on stage. "Now, Delia..._remember_."

Suddenly, I remembered everything as it had really happened. I _did_ love Howard, and he loved me, as much as two people with our backgrounds can love each other (considering 'our people' view everything as a type of business transaction, that is). I remembered hoarding him greedily, putting ground glass and high doses of potassium in his wife's wine. Watching as a kitchen maid took the fall for my careful planning. Her fingerprints everywhere, the bottles of potassium under her bed (wiped clean of my fingerprints), her crappy legal counsel, her conviction, her death at the hands of the state. Attending Mrs. Croft's funeral, standing by Croft, our affair. His son, catching on, accusing me, wanting to be part of it, my shooting him and dumping his body in the Hudson. The cops finding the floater and blaming the mob—hell, they hadn't even questioned me, lazy, stupid, fucking pigs.

My greed led me to murder—my greed for Howard's real affection, to have him all to myself. my greed for money and power. My blind desire to have everything I felt I deserved, even if it meant killing one or two people in the process, and gladly letting others take the blame. I looked over my shoulder, into the mirror. Where I should have been standing was a hideous freak—a thing that looked human, but covered in odd bark and shiny skin, and it—I—was holding a gun. When I looked down, though, I looked like myself again.

The mirror showed the inside. The real inside.

I ran as Howard transformed. I knew what I had to do. I had to end this.

Dropping the gun, having lost the flashtlight earlier, I ran, empty-handed, to Toluca Lake. I ripped off my clothing. Nude, I jumped into the lake and swam out as far as I could go. I waited. I went under. I breathed in deeply. Water, cold, slimy, stinging wetness filled me.

Then, something slithering grabbed my leg. Howard, transformed? It pulled me close, and took me into the depths of the lake...whatever it was. I couldn't see.

Silence and darkness washed over me. 'So this is what it is to die...and this is what it means to pay for my...sins...karmic debt...ill-gotten gains...whatever they are...it doesn't matter, it's all the same, no matter what it's called. It's retribution, plain and simple.' Suddenly, there was nothing but darkness, fear, and cold silence. In just moments, I was gone.

------------------------------------

Road trip. I'd been on the road for a solid 72 hours—living on alternating sips of Mountain Dew, Red Bull, and coffee, sleeping only when necessary (oh, about every 14 hours or so). Even with sleep, that long, buzzing tiredness started to set in, and I knew that, sooner or later, I'd have to find a rest stop again and actually rest—or I could nod off at the wheel like a total jackass—then I'd rest for good. No point in wasting a perfectly good month-long vacation winding up in a crematorium. 2800 miles made for a long trip, and I was of the school that sleep was a necessity for sanity.

Now that I look back on it, maybe I should have tried to stay awake.

I should explain how I got here, even though I'm not entirely all that sure…

I had (yes, had) a really high-pressure Wall Street job. I was one of the most successful young women on Wall Street, and certainly the most successful woman at Wynston & Armley. At the tender age of 27, I was promoted upon receiving my MBA, and made a great token woman on the board of eight directors (two other women had made it, but they were 25 years my senior and I was in charge of **them**). I played the game, and I played it well. I did anything I could to get that position—and yes, I think I fucked every chairman there to get that goddamn promotion, and would have fucked the chairwomen, too, if I'd had to (they sure looked like they needed a good lay). Four years, and four men to a promotion as Chairwoman Queen Bitch from Hell, otherwise known as Delia Wallace. But I could've gotten that promotion without screwing anybody (in a manner of speaking)—in just four short years, I made millions for the company, been published and printed and profiled in countless Finance Magazines, and was known around the Board at the "Miracle Million Maker." Hey, these Wall Street types aren't clever, but they can buy and sell clever if they…if we…want to.

But by the ripe old age of 28, I was burned out. Being the Chairwoman on a board of Chairpeople isn't easy for a seasoned pro, let alone a kid like me who's never really seen the world outside of the great big money filter known as New York City. But hell, some kids have all the luck. I was good at buying the right bonds, skirting the law (in other words, doing the job my way and then turning around and making it all look legal), back-stabbing, getting meddlers and other peons fired, but most of all, I've always seemed to have this weird ability to push others into getting what I want.

I wanted to be rich by my own hand, retire at 30, invest, and spend the rest of my life being and independently wealthy bitch, whoring all over the globe.

And I did it. Sure, I had more than my share of luck to begin with—rich family, only child, good schools—but a lot of the strings after that, well, I pulled those on my own.

But I was tired of it. Done playing, ready to go home to my dead parents, move back into our large but humble family estate, and be done with it. Better than suicide—now _there's_ a way to retire (yeah, right).

It seemed no one wanted to let me go for a while, and I didn't think I'd be able to leave just like that. But I did. I left for a month's vacation, and I didn't intend to go back.

This felt familiar...

END (Begin again at Chapter One).


End file.
